


In a gleaming country

by Ruuuka



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Canon Fix-It, musssssssh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26392030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruuuka/pseuds/Ruuuka
Summary: A failed king of the gods, and a rising king of the condemned. Though they crave to look at each other, there is too much not to boast with.
Relationships: Loki & Thor (Marvel)
Kudos: 20





	In a gleaming country

The cape won’t do either. Nothing will. This day is doomed.

The tremor in his stomach is unseen in the mirror. Loki lifts his chin to lend the image a majestic air, but his look flickering all over steals that shred of confidence away. Nothing can counter his appearance before eyes unaccustomed, he comes to the panicked conclusion for the umpteenth time. There is no way to lift the upcoming moment. There is only living through it. Although there is still the option to die at this instant and no longer carry that burden. The only argument holding him back from it is that then he won’t be present for the meeting he’d been craving since. He holds onto the thought as his life depends on it. It’s not nearly this bad, he repeats in himself like an empty mantra. You’ve grown so much. You’ve grown everything around you so grand, no other ruler could have achieved the same in such a short period. You flourish. They won’t heed what’s unimportant because you’ll overwhelm them with amazement.

Them, maybe. Him, doubtfully. He’s had more than a millennium of Loki’s boastful displays, after all.

He turns back in start, eyes wide, when a guard enters to announce the visitors’ approach.

-

“That’ll be enough for the next two to five hours,” Rocket explains as he twists the bottle out of Thor’s hand. “There’s booze at the welcome party, I promise. But you need to be sober for the introduction cause we’ll never get into the VIP space without your _royallistic_ presence.”

“Please, I need one more sip,” Thor mumbles.

“Stay strong, chum,” is the answer thrown back from the raccoon already on his way to the more populated areas.

And the thunder god hunches up in his well needed solitude, as much as his bulky stomach allows; his gloved fingers intertwined over it. It’s definitely not the form he’d show before his brother, if he had the chance to pick. Especially not in public, in Loki’s own court.

He knows he will be a subject of laughter with his slacked manners, and he’ll make Loki one as well. He’s barging in to this recuperating land to ruin what his brother has built up. Just because he’s a stubborn oaf refusing to be overlooked. There is surely a reason for Loki not seeking him out after he recovered from the wounds Thor deemed mortal back there. If he doesn’t want to see his big stupid brother, he ought to be left to himself as he wished. But it’s too late to think about that. At fist impulse upon hearing the news, he goaded the Asgardians of the Galaxy into flying here. Only during the journey did he start having doubts about his right to show himself in this worthless form. And the nagging regret strengthened as they travelled through the land of frost towards the palace, as he saw it utterly different from the deserts of snow in his past. The new king has made wonders with the surviving Jotunn villages. Thor saw freshly grown life and gleam everywhere, instead of the voids tainted by war. A ground he isn’t worthy to tread, a view he isn’t worthy to joyfully behold.

He squeezes his eyes shut to block it even from his thoughts, for the moment, at least; they will be there in no time, and although he wouldn’t give up on confirming personally that Loki is indeed _here_ , he plans to stay away from attention until it’s inevitable to step forth.

-

Loki hurries with dry diligence across the nature-carved canyons of the palace, towards the greatest, longest yard just before it. Not the habitual spot for a mighty ruler receiving visitors, but the covered areas of Frost Giants are evidently scarce and narrow – His Majesty wishes to bemuse the warm-blooded guests more than that. His seidr enhances the orchestra of light among the surrounding ice columns that he’s had the servants polish smooth like glass – a daffy notion, really, Jotunheim has never seen pointless vanity other than the vast sizes of their frozen gulfs. Tending to such trivialities helps him forget for a bit how much he fits into the diminished nation. How dismayingly similar he looks to these creatures of ice in the eyes of foreigners, even though–

He’s not one of them. His skin is crusty and blue, the marks on his body are that of the royal bloodline (these determined his fate when he ended up here at the mercy of the remaining Jotnar). But his size is that of a child’s among them. He’s been unable to reawaken the Odin-spell that retains his Aesir form – most likely thanks to the local healers that don’t ever respond to his conversational attempts but spit onto the ground each time he mentions the Allfather. His Jotunn powers are weak at this time, fine for entertaining the youth with snow or the likes, but of no use at battle. His strength remains the sorcery taught by the late Queen of Asgard (how are the people doing? Have they made it, are they on Midgard, is Thor- Thor isn’t with them. Thor, the saviour of the Universe, is here to see Loki. What does that mean for Asgard? Not his concern. He’s betrayed them before, he’s a traitor there, he could only return as a foe. He belongs here now. Not with Thor. Thor will see it soon enough. What if he _will_? If he’ll really– He did say it. _Our paths diverged a long time ago_. _If you were here, I might even give you a hug._ So many years. He wouldn’t remember, it was but an hour, a breath before all ended).

He will stand on top of the stairs at the reception and deal the cleverest words to divert the attention and to counter- well, the sight of himself. Thor expects to see his brother as the Aesir he knows; so Loki shall take measures to make the introduction gradual, to keep a distance from Thor’s mighty form and his oafish dismay. He has a court watching, after all, he can’t afford losing what he’d nourished back to life for some old sentiment of his own.

-

The ship lands in the plains in front of the most impressive structure of unknown material – it’s hard to tell from above while it’s bestudded with snow. Close to emerging into the open, Thor takes a deep, slow breath and focuses his energies to form his battle attire, the one most suitable in his current wardrobe to meet a royalty. His look remains that of a man carried for his execution.

Here comes the King’s brother. A slob. A drunkard. A _former_ sibling of His Majesty, from the times he couldn’t embrace his true heritage. Here comes the one that used to be first where He was counted second.

He resists the push firmly, and his friends’ joint effort is like a flower’s brush against his weight. He’ll go last, he insists in the hushed battle of dominance. Or in the middle, he bargains then. Not first. He’s not the leader, Quill is. He just wants to take a look, maybe share a greeting nod, nothing more. He hasn’t prepared with lofty words and all the hassle, even Tree makes better dialogues than him.

Nebula tosses him aside as she makes her way back to the inner spaces.

“He doesn’t want to see his brother,” she hisses through a clenched jaw. “We can get back, I don’t care for the party.”

“I do,” the three men retort at once. Groot’s interest is predictably meagre at the matter.

“I do want to see him,” Thor reassures the cyborg. “Just not in the front lines, I-”

“No, you don’t want to see him,” Nebula spins around to hammer away on the belatedly resisting god’s forehead. “You’re just talk and talk, all empty. You’ve been wailing over it since, and now that here is your chance to meet your family again, you’re fussing over the measliest crap. You don’t want this. We’re leaving. I’m taking the ship with whoever comes along, and I’ll continue the search for _my_ sister that we’re delaying for your stupid farce.”

Thor makes a move to hold her by the shoulders but has the mind to keep his hands at a symbolic distance from her threatening form.

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry,” he mutters appeasing. “You’re right. This chance is a blessing, and I forgot that in my cowardice. I’ll see him. I’ll see him right now.”

-

The minute freezes over as the sorcerer stops on top of the stairs. He breathes in shallow puffs as his look searches the newcomers approaching from the ship. The silence is vast. The steps crunching on the light gravel of frost are heavy, slowing gradually unintended.

On both sides, their alert senses are preoccupied with the sight. All the excessive heights, the gleam capturing and dragging the gaze along to behold the entire glory. The diversity of the newly arrived group, their offhand rawness, their unruly vigour.

It doesn't take long before their looks find their way and recognise. There is a moment of whiteness where everything else disappears. Then confusion stirs, something is amiss. The perceived changes tell stories, ones that shouldn’t have happened, ones that will never be told in words. Realisation seeps in as a gentle stream. _Time hasn’t been kind_. The aloofness dissipates, transforms.

Loki is hurrying down the fur-covered steps before the intention would form in his mind; the grand words remain silence behind him. The god of thunder will not make a scene; they meet at the bottom of the stairs and the clasp of his arms is so tight that Loki’s embrace gets lost in it, even though he makes such effort to give comfort, to express that no gruesome time has paled the hour interrupted. Some half-formed gratitude to Norns and ancestors leaves along with their breaths and stands out of the silence in the softest manner; this yard chosen for the welcome has very elegant acoustics, originally meant to carry the flamboyant words of King Loki.

When they separate, one more look confirms that the meeting is real.

“I’ve had your favourite meals prepared,” Loki notes then in a tone quiet, his smile strictly moderated but the shine in his eyes boastful.

“Things grow here?”

“Not much. Most are imported.”

Imported. Jotunheim has relations now. Thor shakes his head mildly as he beholds his wonderfully skilled brother. Then he remembers to join the brag.

“Look,” he gestures towards the group idling behind him. “Groot.”

“No,” Loki breathes.

“Yes.”

Tree glances up under his crusty eyebrows but immediately returns to his game with a disinterested huff.

“He’s just a lad, quite bashful around strangers,” Thor explains.

Jotunn guards, in a familiarly coarse arrangement, follow the events from the side; the crimson eyes have a piercing look Thor knows from the past, but now he recognises the protective distrust he used to ignore in it. Who he is or was doesn't matter here; what counts is whether he means harm or not for the King, and the notion fills him with relief.

As Quill steps forward, the expression on his face clearly shows how he’ll never get used to being surrounded by idiots. He points at the Jotunn king but looks at Thor, his voice higher than usually.

“How the hell did you not realise he’s adopted?”

The sorcerer’s questioning look joins the others’ at demanding the answer. Thor chuckles.

“I think deep down I knew all along.”

“I’ll tell you a more entertaining version inside,” Loki reassures the group, and he turns to lead them into the chambers sealed away from winds, where a fire survives and invites visitors to stay.

**– End –**


End file.
